“Chocolate is easy,” he replied, climbing into the car.
“It’s not chocolate I’m talking about,” she said. “See you tonight.”
She closed the door, and he sat where he was for just long enough to convince himself not to go back, not to take what he thought she might be willing to give.
She wasn’t ready and he wasn’t going to push.
He had time.
Benevolence wasn’t what he’d wanted. It wasn’t where he’d thought his life would be headed, but there he was. He couldn’t say he didn’t like it. He couldn’t say there wasn’t something quaint and wholesome and nice about being back in the place where he’d finally learned what family meant.
He’d let that last for as long as it did, and if that meant forever, who was he to complain? He’d built his restaurants. He’d made good money doing it. Maybe it was time to put a little of the love Belinda and Dillard had given him back into the place they’d always called home.
Chapter Ten
Twelve hours into her fifth day on the job and Brenna still hated fudge.
She didn’t just hate it. She hated it to the very depth of her soul.
She stood at the stove anyway, stirring up another batch of what had made Chocolate Haven famous: Lamont family fudge. The stuff had won awards. Its praises had been sung in magazines and on talk shows. There were celebrities who raved about the stuff, brides who ordered pounds of it for their nuptials, and moms-to-be who craved it like other women craved pickles and ice cream.
Yep. Lamont family fudge was the keystone to Chocolate Haven’s success.
Brenna couldn’t make it to save her life.
Which was a problem, considering she needed about fifteen pounds of it. Stat. She had orders for it coming out of her eyeballs: Internet orders, call-in orders, walk-in orders. It seemed every person who’d walked into the shop, called the shop, or gotten on the shop Web site that day desperately wanted Lamont fudge. She’d sold all that was left from the previous day and now she had to find a way to make more.
Brenna eyed the pan of melted chocolate, condensed milk, and a few other ingredients that seemed determined to float at the top of the sludgy mess that was supposed to be fudge. This definitely wasn’t the way.
She’d read the recipe in Byron’s office.
She’d reread it and reread it again.
She’d committed it to memory because Byron had made her swear not to leave it where anyone could see it.
She’d followed the recipe. To a T!
And this was what she had for her efforts: a pot full of crap.
She stirred it frantically, hoping to smooth it out a little more. No such luck. Even with the temperature exactly right, the ingredients precisely measured, the kitchen clean and neat and prepared for greatness, she’d still managed to make a mess of the one thing she absolutely had to get right.
She dipped a spoon into the sludge and tasted it.
It looked disgusting, but it wasn’t horrible. So, maybe she wasn’t making a mess of things. Maybe she was just making a mediocre facsimile of Lamont fudge. Someone would probably eat it and be satisfied, but that someone sure as hell wouldn’t be anyone who’d ever tasted the real deal.
She sighed, pouring the lumpy mixture into a prepared pan and doing everything in her power to make it look glossy and luscious.
It looked like a big pile of shi—
The phone rang and she grabbed it and the yellow pad Byron took orders on. No doubt she’d be asked for another pound of fudge. Milk chocolate. Peanut butter. S’more. Or one of the six other flavors Chocolate Haven offered. She could add another pound of impossible to the list of what she needed, and then she could try the recipe again.
What was this? The sixth time today? The seventh?
“Chocolate Haven. Brenna speaking. How can I help you?”
“It’s your mother,” Janelle said, her voice knife-edged sharp.
“Hey, Mom. What’s up?” She tried to sound pleasant. God knew she tried, but Janelle had special mother radar that detected every hint of attitude in any of her daughters’ voices. Right at that moment, Brenna had a serious attitude. Twelve hours of chocolate, several pans of mediocre fudge, and she had a chip on her shoulder the size of Mount Everest. She was willing to admit it. Just not to Janelle.
“No need to get snotty before we even begin the conversation.”
“I’m not snotty. I’m busy,” she corrected, scowling at the pan of fudge. It looked like her life: a mucky mess of disparate parts that would not go together no matter how much she tried to make them.
“Too busy to return my texts?”
“Did you text me?” She hadn’t had time to grab lunch, let alone check her phone and return texts or calls. She pulled it out of her apron pocket. Four text messages and three phone calls, probably from Jeff. She set the phone on the counter, went back to trying to smooth the fudge.
“Did I text you? I texted you four times.”
“Like I said, I’ve been busy. Granddad wasn’t in the shop today.”
“Because you kicked him out,” Janelle replied. Obviously she and Byron had been talking, and obviously the discussion hadn’t made Janelle happy. The two might disagree at times, but they loved and respected each other. No way would Janelle let any of her daughters treat Byron badly.
Not that any of them would.
Not that Brenna had.
She’d simply stated the obvious: Byron was in a pissy mood and he needed to get out of the kitchen until he got over it.
He’d taken her suggestion seriously.
So seriously he hadn’t bothered returning.
She’d managed.
With help from River.
She shoved thoughts of him away. She wasn’t going to think about how nice it might be to take a chance, be a little adventurous, allow herself to explore what he was offering.
“You did kick him out, right?” Janelle pressed, that sharp edge still in her voice.
“Kick him out? That’s a gross exaggeration.” She poked the fudge with a fork. Hard as a rock, it now looked like brown cement. Gorgeous.
“Not according to Byron. He said you told him to leave his own store. He was very hurt by your rudeness.”
“Byron can take it as easily as he can dish it out, Mom. I’m sure he wasn’t heartbroken.”
“You didn’t see the look on his face when we met for coffee. Fortunately, I was able to smooth things over by reminding him that you just recently got out of a bad relationship.”
“It’s been months.”
“It still must hurt. You loved Dan so much, and to have him betray you with another woman like he did . . . I just can’t even imagine.”
Brenna could picture Janelle shaking her head, her hair not moving an inch from whatever perfect style she’d lacquered it into. “Like I said, it’s been months, and I’m trying to put the entire fiasco out of my mind.”
“As well you should. There is no sense wasting another second of your passion on that asshole.”
“Mother!” Brenna exclaimed, genuinely surprised by her mother’s language. Janelle had always been too refined and ladylike to use crass language.
“What? It’s not like you haven’t referred to him that way.”
“Not in front of you.”
“Does that make it any less the truth?”
“I guess not.”
“My point is this, Brenna: You’re young and beautiful. There are dozens and dozens of men out there who’d gladly take Dan’s place.”
“I’m not looking for a replacement.”
“You should be. Look at your sisters. Both of them are so happy.”
“I know,” she mumbled, hacking at the chocolate cement as if it had committed some crime against her. Bits of hardened fudge flew into the air, smacked her in the cheek, bounced off the wall.
“They are, Brenna. It shocked me more than anyone when Adeline and Sinclair got together, but they’re the perfect couple. Don’t you think?�
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“As perfect as any couple can be,” she admitted, telling herself that she wasn’t at all envious of that. She loved Addie. She was excited to see her in love and married and pregnant, but—God help her—she wanted all those things, too.
“And Willow . . . she’s such a lovely girl. She’s always been just so . . .”
“Perfect?” Because that was how Brenna had always thought of her. Perfect student, perfect daughter, perfect sister. Unlike Brenna, she’d never caused her family a moment of worry. A prosecuting attorney with a reputation that had brought her into the national spotlight on more than one occasion, Willow made her living putting criminals behind bars. When she wasn’t doing that, she was volunteering in homeless shelters, working with battered women, mentoring young women.
“No one is perfect, but Willow sure tries. Hopefully, that won’t come back to haunt her the way it did . . .” She paused. “Never mind. I didn’t call to talk about your sisters. And I didn’t call to harass you about Byron. I know the man can be a pain in the butt. I called because I owe you an apology.”
“For . . . ?”
“This morning. You girls are too sweet to complain about it, or maybe you’re just too used to it to notice, but I can be a little critical sometimes. A little more negative than I should be.”
“It’s okay.”
“No. It really isn’t. I used to be like you, Brenna: a free spirit, the entire world stretching out in front of me. I had big dreams and I thought they’d all come true. Then I met your dad, and none of those things seemed to matter.”
“Until he was gone?”
“No. They didn’t even matter after that. I’d had what I wanted, and I wanted to make sure you girls had it, too. All the love and contentment and joy. I guess I started nitpicking to make sure none of you got on the wrong path. Noah says . . .” She stopped herself again.
“Noah?”
“Story. He was here for May’s wedding. Remember?”
Of course she remembered. Janelle had blushed like a schoolgirl every time she’d looked at the guy. If Brenna hadn’t been so caught up in the drama of finding out Dan had cheated, she would have asked some questions, found out a little more about the guy who’d once taught at Benevolence High.
“I remember him. Is he still in town?”
“He moved back a few months ago.”
“And you talk to him often, do you?”
“Did I say that?” Janelle hedged. “I need to go. I’ve got a meeting with Katie Flemings at In Season Blooms. She’s going to make flower arrangements for your sister’s party.”
“Do you really think Willow is going to want you to go to the trouble? She likes things simple.”
“These will be simple and elegant. Just like your sister. I’ll see you at church tomorrow, dear.”
“I’m not going to—” church.
“Of course you are. Adeline needs her family’s support while her husband is away.”
“He’s in Seattle, Mom. It’s not like he’s been deployed.”
“Does it matter? Adeline has always been there for us. Never once has she ever said no when we’ve needed her.”
True. Every bit of it.
“So, of course you’ll be there to sit beside her when her husband can’t.”
“What about you?”
“I always attend church. Wear a dress that covers your thighs or Millicent Montgomery will have something to say about it.” Janelle hung up.
Great. Wonderful. Now Brenna was going to have to walk into the Lord’s house with dozens of lies hidden in her heart.
Lies about why she’d closed her store.
Lies about what had happened between her and Dan.
Lies about her financial situation, her home, her happiness.
Lies about her ability to make the Lamont family fudge.
She scowled, snatching the pan from the counter and carrying it to the trash can. She tried to dump it out, but it stuck fast. Just like all the stupid lies she’d told.
I’m fine.
Things are good.
I’ve lost my passion for retail and I think it’s time to try something new.
It’s easier to drive to Benevolence than to fly.
Why couldn’t she have been transparent? Why couldn’t she have been as vulnerable and real as Adeline had been when her high school sweetheart had dumped her? Why couldn’t she have just run home the minute she’d realized what Dan had done, let her family enfold her the way they’d enfolded Adeline all those years ago?
Because she wasn’t Adeline, that’s why.
The expectations for her were different. It was fine for Addie to stay in Benevolence. It was fine for her to buy a little house and run a business there. It was fine for her to mourn the loss of her first love.
Brenna was supposed to be above that.
Janelle thought she was.
The entire town thought she was, and she hadn’t wanted to disappoint. She hadn’t wanted to let them know just how human she really was.
“Idiot,” she grumbled, grabbing the knife and sliding it between the fudge and the side of the pan. She tried to pry the chocolate out, but it still wouldn’t budge.
“Give me a break! Okay? Just this one time, can something please just work?” The fudge suddenly flew from the pan and the knife slipped, slicing across her knuckles so quickly she didn’t even realize what had happened until blood bubbled from the wound.
Wounds?
She eyed the gashes that ran across the pointer, middle, and ring finger on her left hand.
“Dang it!” she yelled.
She probably would have been proud of herself for the improvement in her language if she hadn’t been bleeding like a stuck pig.
She grabbed a hand towel, pressed it to her knuckles, kicked the lump of fudge that had somehow missed the trash can and landed on the floor.
“This was not what I meant,” she muttered, blood seeping through the towel and dripping onto the floor.
She’d need stitches. No doubt about that.
She ran into Byron’s office and grabbed the first aid kit, found a roll of gauze she could use to wrap her fingers. The towel was too bulky, so she replaced it with gauze pads, wound more gauze around that.
“Good enough,” she muttered as she grabbed her purse and headed for the back door.
She was out in the parking lot before she realized she didn’t have a car. It was right around that time that she realized she didn’t have her phone either. She did have her keys. At least she thought she had her keys. She dug through her purse, found a pack of tissue, a piece of gum, her empty wallet. Keys!
She lifted them triumphantly, was dancing her way back to the door, feeling pretty damn accomplished, when a car pulled around the corner of the building, what looked like a window hanging out of the trunk.
Not just any car.
Her car. Purring like a contented cat. She almost couldn’t believe it was the same car that had sputtered its way across the country.
She waited until River parked, then ran toward him.
“Perfect timing,” she exclaimed, yanking open the passenger door before she realized Mack was in the seat.
“Ma’am,” he said as she backed away. “Your grandfather wants me to fix the window.” His gaze dropped to her hand. “You okay?”
“Just a little cut,” she responded, even though blood was already seeping through the layers of gauze.
“Looks like more than a little one to me.” He strode to the back of the car, lifted the window out of the trunk. “Got the keys from Byron. You go on and get that hand looked at. I’ll take care of things here.”
“The kitchen is a mess. I had a fight with some fudge and—”
“Brenna,” River cut in, “Mack has seen worse than whatever you left in the kitchen.”
“I know, but—”
He got out of the Chrysler, walked around, and lifted her gauze-wrapped hand. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Knock your
self out.”
* * *
River unwrapped the gauze.
She’d done a hell of a job on herself. Three fingers had been cut. At least one deeply enough to require stitches. He wasn’t sure about the others.
“I’d ask you how you did this, but that would waste time you could be spending getting it stitched up. I’ll give you a ride over.”
“That’s not necessary. I can drive myself.”
“Why would you?”
“Because I’ve been doing things for myself for a long time? I drove myself to the ER when I busted my left ankle three years ago. I walked to the hospital last year when I had a reaction to an antibiotic. Six months ago, I sprained my wrist when I tripped over a curb, and I—”
“Let me guess,” he muttered, rewrapping her hand and nudging her into the car. “You walked to the ER? Drove yourself to a clinic? Took the metro to the nearest medical facility?”
She laughed. “I hailed a cab and paid someone to drive me.”
“Where was your fiancé during all of this?”
Must have been the wrong question to ask. The laughter died, all the amusement seeping out of her face. “Working.”
“That sounds like an easy excuse for him to make.” He pulled out of the parking lot, turning onto Main Street and heading toward the edge of town. There was a small medical clinic there. Serious injuries or trauma required transportation to a hospital in Spokane, but cut fingers, broken bones, colds, flus, and other everyday medical issues could be dealt with there.
“I guess it was,” she responded, pulling her knees up to her chin and wrapping her arms around them. “I guess it also was an easy excuse for me to accept.”
“Did it bother you?”
“It should have.”
“So . . . no?”
“I realized after we broke up that the relationship had become more of a habit than anything else.”
“I went there one time,” he admitted. “Spent a lot of time with a woman who should have been perfect for me. Turns out, she wasn’t. We liked each other enough, got along well enough, but we both realized enough wasn’t what either of us wanted.”
“You broke up?”
“More like we just sat down and discussed things and realized we weren’t going to miss what we had. Then we went our separate ways. She got engaged six months later. They invited me to the wedding.”
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